Starlight
by Sorkari
Summary: Shane tries, but sometimes, it isn't enough. Sometimes, he needs a little bit of help, and that's okay.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **the long road to recovery

* * *

Shane almost forgot that a new farmer had moved in a couple of months back.

Every day had gone by like any other; wake up at the crack of dawn, work for hours on end under the scrutiny of an asshole who never had to sweat for his money, and then hide away at the saloon until he was too drunk to remember how his day had been. Well, he wasn't _always_ that drunk - Joja would never pay him that generously. He saved his pity sessions for pay day.

So when he looked down at an empty mug in his hand, there was an odd twinge in his gut. He was unsure of what it was anymore. Disappointment? Guilt? It all felt the same at this point. He cradled the mug in his hands, as if it were some precious thing, eyes trained on the glass as he debated whether he should indulge just this one night.

Shane snorted at the thought. _Just this one night,_ of course, because every other night is _just this one night_, right?

Footsteps approached him, and immediately, he looked up and was met with an oddly bright smile. The farmer he had met earlier that season stood before him, a mug in each hand, and before Shane could utter a word, he said, "I thought you'd like this. It's your favorite, right?"

While flattered, the foam that had clung desperately to the rim of the mug did everything to tempt him, yet nothing to compel him. He finally remembered that Pelican Town had a new addition that season, and with that came the memory of his lonely trek to the saloon one afternoon when he had first crossed paths with the farmer.

"Hi there!" the farmer had started, and he was far too happy for a Monday and far, _far_ too loud for Shane's headache. "I just moved in last week. I'm -"

"Get fucked," Shane snapped, and that was that.

Nearly an entire season had passed since then, and suddenly, here the farmer was, offering him beer and a smile that shined brighter than the neon lights that flickered around the rim of the jukebox across the saloon. A few seconds passed, the silence tense and thick, almost suffocating Shane where he leaned against the wall, and he could tell by the small fidgeting that the farmer was starting to succumb to it.

Finally, Shane reached out to the beer he wanted but definitely didn't deserve, grunting lowly, "Thanks." In a solemn afterthought, he asked, "How'd you know?"

What was it, exactly? The stains on his shirt? How often he'd walk home with a pack of cheap beer from JojaMart without a care in the world who saw or who judged? The frequent glances he'd shoot over to Gus as he contemplated another drink, and then another, until he couldn't think anymore?

The farmer's chest swelled, his eyes light with something between pride and contentedness. "Lucky guess, I suppose!"

He didn't linger after that. He wished Shane well and turned on his heel to return to the pool table. Shane watched from the frigid shadow of his secluded corner as the farmer, so seamlessly intertwined with their society despite barely being here for a season, happily greeted Sam and Sebastian with the same kind of familiarity as an old friend would have. Shane's grip tightened on the mug, and when the foam had eventually slid over the edge and onto his fingers, he took a sip with a defeated sigh.

* * *

The next week, when the farmer approached him with more beer, Shane found it increasingly difficult not to slam his own empty mug against the farmer's freckled face. He gave that same toothy, disgustingly lighthearted smile as he started, "Hey, I -"

"Why are you buying me a drink?" Shane asked. The inquiry came out cold, almost deadpan, and it finally put a dent in the farmer's picture perfect smile. "I don't even know you."

The farmer opened his mouth to speak, yet naught but a helpless little noise left his lips. Shane would regret it if skepticism didn't lurk in the shadows of his mind, wondering why anyone would offer any kindness to a piteous man. Eventually, the farmer held out the beer to him again, and something in Shane fluttered with the fleeting sense of incredulous surprise.

"Well, that's exactly it, " the farmer said with a nervous little laugh. "I _don't_ know you. But I'd like to."

The admission was so painstakingly genuine, as if he didn't already know just how big of a mess Shane really was. A giant, disappointing mess that no one had ever been interested in getting to know. Shane immediately accepted the gift; the craving for alcohol was more important than the guilt that lurked in the back of his mind.

This time, the farmer didn't immediately leave, instead asking him while he shakily took a sip, "How long have you lived in the Valley?"

_How long have you been dragging Marnie down?_

There was a curious little tilt in the farmer's head at the question- innocent, carefree, as if the question wasn't about something that Shane had dwelled on ever since he moved in with Marnie several months back. It was another one of those topics that he actively avoided until he had either a beer too many or laid awake long enough to brood. Several months under his aunt's roof, in a town where he promised himself a fresh start, in a valley filled with various wonders, yet still stuck in the same monotonous schedule that he had fallen into in the city. If Emily hadn't disappeared into the back room some time ago, he would've downed his drink and ordered another.

"Not as long as you think I have."

The finality of his tone got the message across; the farmer nodded slowly, visibly dissatisfied, but to Shane's relief, he didn't push. Shortly after, he started, "Well, you and rest of town already know when I moved in." He shifted from one foot to the other with a small, forced laugh. "It's scary, though, isn't it? How quickly word spreads? About _everything,_ seriously!"

Shane would snort at the understatement if it wasn't so laborious to do anything but lift his mug to his lips. He found that it had become frighteningly empty, and still, Emily had yet to return to her spot at the bar. The farmer was still talking, so blissfully oblivious to the disaster before him, but Shane wasn't listening. He could only focus on the thirst, the _need_, the absolute agony that was the torturous dryness in his mouth and in his throat that water could never quench.

"I'm going home."

A lie, of course, but the shame of lying was overshadowed by the shame of admitting to returning to JojaMart for alcohol. He realized that he had cut the farmer off, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He already started walking, and behind him, he heard the farmer murmur, "Oh. . . ."

Later that night, all Shane could focus on was the farmer. How bright that smile was, how happy and stupidly pleased he seemed when Shane accepted his gift - then how undeniably _disappointed_ the farmer sounded in the end after such a nice attempt at pleasant conversation. It didn't matter why Shane left anymore; all that mattered was that small, pitifully defeated sound once the farmer realized that his efforts had gone to waste. As expected, it didn't take long for Shane to disappoint him.

_And how long will it take Marnie to realize that she's wasting her time, too?_

His only relief was his seventh beer, but by that point, he couldn't remember what, exactly, he was trying to relieve himself of.

* * *

The sudden flourish of life in the Valley marked the beginning of summer. Shane found that the only enjoyable part of his day, besides his trek to the saloon, were his early morning walks to JojaMart. The town was peaceful so early in the morning, with naught but the sounds of bird calls and his own methodical footsteps. There typically weren't people out and about in the morning, which left him to sulk in his own thoughts in peace as he walked in the pleasant chill of the morning, but this time, he came across the farmer on his way out of the forest from Marnie's ranch.

Shane almost couldn't meet the farmer's eye, but he forced himself to. Surprisingly enough, the farmer offered him a gentle smile, as if Shane didn't rudely interrupt him to go drink, as if Shane hadn't been actively avoiding him at the saloon. Resting on his shoulder was a fishing rod, and in his other hand, a small cooler. The farmer's voice was soft, gravelly with the remnants of sleep as he greeted, "Morning."

"Morning," Shane responded, deadpan, lifeless like any other morning, as if he hadn't been brooding over their last encounter.

The farmer didn't bother stopped for small talk like he would with any other; his smile faltered, and as they passed, Shane could see the dark bags that weighed heavily under his eyes. A few steps further, Shane stopped - he didn't know what compelled him, exactly, to call back to the farmer, "Hey. You got a second?"

"Huh?" The farmer's sleep-laden eyes widened a bit. "Oh. Yeah, definitely." He wandered over, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. "What's up?"

Shane held his breath. Almost a week had passed of him contemplating on and off what to say, but still, he didn't know what to say, only that he wanted to say it. Yet what was there to say anymore? _Sorry for being an unlikable asshole?_ _Sorry for being rude when you bought me a drink? Sorry for being ungrateful?_

"About last week. . . ."

His voice faltered. The farmer shrugged as if to feign insouciance, but the tension was evident in his voice when he said, "It's okay. I knew I was bothering you."

"No, that's not -" Shane hissed out a sigh. "Look. I'm not good with words."_ I'm not good with anything_. "I just want to apologize for being a jerk to you."_ I'm just shitty like that._ "I just - I don't know you well and I got defensive." _I don't know why I'm like this._ "But it's not your fault."

Whatever had weighed on the farmer's shoulder had visibly dissipated at the admission. "Apology accepted!" The lethargic droop in the farmer's eyes were gone, now replaced with the odd sort of light that they held when he spoke to Shane at the saloon. It was alluring, how breathtakingly expressive they were, far more alluring than any drink that Gus could offer him. "I guess I'll be seeing you around, then."

"Yeah."

It was a small success, but a success nonetheless, and that in itself was enough to make Shane's chest feel light and airy. It was foreign, almost frightening with its sharp contrast to his usual cold, nearly lifeless demeanor, but for now, he relished in it. For now, he'll enjoy the small victory that was salvaging whatever possibility there was of a friendship in this town.

* * *

The next time they talked, they were, of course, at the saloon. Except this time, Shane had barely arrived; he was still sitting at the bar, waiting for either Emily or Gus to tend to him, when the farmer suddenly slunk over the bar stool next to him.

When Emily neared, the farmer said, "Hey, Emily! Mind pouring us a few drinks?"

"Gotcha," she cheerfully hummed, and off she went to retrieve the beer.

Sitting so close to him now, under the bright lights of the bar, Shane could see the forest green of the farmer's eyes. They were bright, strong, and when the farmer offered him a shy smile, his stomach flipped.

He murmured incredulously, "Buying me a drink? Again?"

The farmer's smile widened. That smile, initially annoying and disgusting in how _fake_ Shane assumed it to be, helped melt the tension in a way Shane didn't know was possible. "Yeah, I know! Mom always told me how stubborn I was."

A silence followed. The farmer had yet to meet his eye again, oddly antsy compared to how he typically held himself with the other patrons. Then again, no one else was as unpleasant as Shane had been when they first met. That thought would've burrowed further into his chest and poisoned him with its malice if the farmer didn't turn to him again.

"Do you think we could start over?"

Emily returned with their drinks. Shane pulled his own mug closer to him, but he didn't feel the immediate urge to drink. Not yet, anyways. He pondered it for a moment, then said, "Sure."


	2. Chapter 2

It was well into summer when Shane saw the farmer outside of the saloon. It was one of _those_ nights, and he tried to resist, truly, but the effort fell apart the longer the night dragged on. Jas, Marnie, the promise he made to himself long ago to get himself together - all melting away as the night crawled by with the shaking, the itching, the consistent agitated pacing as he eventually wondered longingly, blind to his effort altogether, why he should endure such torture.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, perhaps) for him, he had a pack of beers waiting for him in the back of Marnie's fridge. He hid it some time ago, knowing full well that he was setting himself up for failure, knowing with everything he was that the bottle and shot glass under his bed would never last him the full day. Even so, he had set it aside, put another careless dent in his wallet, because he realized with a sharp twist in his stomach that trying never mattered, anyways.

_Try_, they'd say, _try for me_. Try for them, but never himself - as if they knew, deep down, that he wouldn't care if it was only for himself, and that in itself was a painful and pitiful truth.

He snuck out to the silo and seated himself against the hay stacks, the cold touch of the beer can on his skin the only relief from the thick heat. He'd stay inside, but one look down the hallway at Jas' door made him reconsider.

There was still a slight tremor in his hands as he moved on to his second beer when he heard footsteps approaching. Emerging from the road next to Marnie's ranch was the farmer. If it weren't for the moonlight that illuminated the night, the farmer likely would've walked right past him; he abruptly stopped in his tracks, a small noise leaving him, before he sighed, "Oh. Shane. What're you doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep." Shane scanned him briefly, his eyes lingering a bit too long at the muscle shirt that clung tightly to the farmer's torso. He looked back up to the moon that loomed over the trees, saying quickly, "I'm guessing you couldn't either. Right?"

The farmer shrugged. ". . . Yeah. It's been a long night."

Shane recognized the tone - tired, defeated, _small_. Everything the farmer wasn't, _couldn't_ be.

"Here. Have a drink with me."

The farmer settled down next to him. There was a comfortable silence, calm despite how thick the air was and how clammy Shane's hands had become. Eventually, amongst the croaking and chirping of wildlife, Shane heard the farmer ask, "What're you thinking about?"

He stared down at the bottle in his hand. How many times had he come home to a clean bedroom when he knew damn well that he left a shameful stack of these exact bottles at his bedside? How many times had he caught Marnie staring at him while he was in the kitchen, searching with numb limbs and dead eyes for the bottle of aspirin, with something so painfully close to _pity_ on her countenance?

"You've never. . . ." Shane trailed off, unsure of how to speak over the lump in his throat. He tried again, and his voice was calm, collected, not once revealing the abhorrent sinking in his heart as he continued lowly, "You've never been so upset . . . that it physically hurt you?" Both hands clasped the neck of the bottle, perfect and still, ever so still, while everything in his mind trembled. "Have you ever felt like no matter what you did or how hard you tried, you were always meant to fail? That you weren't enough? That you were stuck in an abyss and will always be too weak and stupid to climb out and see the light of day again?"

He didn't realize how tightly his hands had clung to the bottle until the farmer's hand grasped his wrist. Shane let go, a tremulous breath leaving his lips. The farmer's grip was gentle, yet firm, and it acted as the anchor that Shane didn't know could be so comforting, so _grounding_.

"A long time ago, you said you weren't really good with words. And you know what? I'm not really good with words, either," the farmer admitted. His voice was softer than Shane had ever heard at the saloon. "But if it means anything, I'm here for you."

_For how long?_

The farmer withdrew his hand. Shane glanced down at the empty bottle that the farmer held loosely. "Hmph. Fast drinker even outside the saloon, huh? Man after my own heart." The rest of the bottles that glared at him urged him to murmur grimly, "Just don't make it a habit. You've still got a future ahead of you."

"You do too, Shane." Shane assumed his disbelief showed on his face, because the farmer said, "That's why I left Zuzu City. You know? Because I felt so hopeless. Because Joja took everything out of me."

Shane realized how dark the farmer's eyes were, even under the moonlight, and just under them, an exquisitely gentle smile. It was a smile Shane had seen many times before, but somehow, it was different. It held more meaning, more _feeling_, much deeper than the smiles he'd flash to the many friends he's made around Pelican Town. He had leaned in close despite how uncomfortably muggy the atmosphere was, and something about the way he spoke and the way those eyes captured everything within them made Shane inexplicably breathless.

"I'm not going to talk like I know your life or like I know your problems, but I can tell you one thing that I do know is true: this will pass." The farmer leaned back, and Shane might have followed desperately after him if it weren't for the hand that came up to squeeze his shoulder. "I mean, it might pass like a kidney stone, but it _will_ pass. And . . . I'll be here. Always." He added quietly, "If you'll let me."

_Always,_ came the echo in Shane's head. _Always, always, always_. It was different than _never_, but he found that it was much more pleasant.

A lot of things were more pleasant with the farmer.

* * *

Shane was used to hiding in the corner of the saloon. It was quiet, solitary, everything that he needed when it got particularly bad - but now the farmer was there, visiting more often than he used to, and Shane couldn't quite pinpoint what the weight in his gut was. The farmer always came bearing gifts - beer, of course, because what else would Shane want? - but this time, he came empty handed. The farmer seemed giddy, with an impatient bounce in his heels, and Shane quirked a brow in question.

"Hey. You wanna play pool with us?" the farmer asked.

Those eyes were wide, hopeful, and Shane almost couldn't say no. But a lurking suspicion had him glancing at the pool table, and he realized dimly that Sam and Sebastian were watching they exchange. They returned back to their game in a heartbeat, perhaps nonchalant, but to Shane, it felt guilty. Like the many other times back in Zuzu City when his coworkers, although initially well-meaning, had tried their hardest to get him out of the bar and into a broader social setting.

_You need friends_, they'd say, _how else are you going to get better?_

But were they friends if they made no effort to keep in touch? Were they friends if they didn't even realize you moved out of the city until a few months had passed?

"I don't need your pity," Shane snapped. The farmer's brow furrowed at the accusation, and maybe Shane shouldn't have been so deadpan, so frighteningly cold. "If this is about the other night -"

"What? No! What're you talking about?" The farmer almost seemed scandalized at the thought; he crossed his arms and huffed, "If I pitied you, I'd tell you to find a therapist. It's not about pity, okay? It never was. I just. . . ." Whatever confidence there was melted as quickly as the ice in Shane's drink; his teeth worried at his lower lip, as if he had something to say, and the sight of such a simple mannerism made Shane yearn to reach out and touch. The farmer didn't quite meet his eye when he said, "I just want to hang out with you. Have some fun. And I thought you'd like to play a few games with us, or something."

Without a second thought, Shane purred, "I can think of a few things we can do that are a _little_ more fun than pool, but I guess."

Shane didn't catch himself until it was too late, but to his surprise, the risk was worth it; it was dark in his corner, but even so, Shane can see just how beautifully the farmer's face burned crimson at the implication. The sight was lovelier than he was prepared for, and he idly bit his own lip, the drink in his hand suddenly too cold and the sweater he wore too hot to wear in the saloon anymore.

The farmer spluttered, "I - well - so that's - that's a yes, right?" He collected himself, his eyes considerably bright and bold despite the ridiculous blush as he stated, "I'm taking that as a yes. Come on."

Shane eventually found that he didn't like playing pool all that much. He joined Abigail on the couch some time later, where he soon drowned out whatever story she had been telling to the group to watch the game, and then, gradually, the farmer. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned skin and muscles toned from hard work around the farm, no doubt. Higher up, the fabric of his sleeves clung tightly to his biceps, and eventually, Shane glanced up to meet the farmer's eye.

There was a small grin on the farmer's lips, one that was as sly and sinuous as the fire that burned in those magnificent eyes. He asked, "What do you think, Shane?"

Judging by the expectant looks he received from the other three, he assumed it was related to Abigail's story. _Bastard._ Shane licked his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth had inexplicably gotten, and he responded lowly, "Nice."

Abigail triumphed at the response. Something about Journey of the Prairie King, another thing about Abigail's apparent victory (and to Sam, a nonevent) after months of trial and error, but Shane didn't care enough to bother listening.

* * *

"Would you do me a favor, dear?"

Shane almost didn't register that Marnie had addressed him. There was no blatant displeasure in her tone, no traces of pity or sorrow upon her countenance, only innocent consideration that he hadn't seen in a long time. It was foreign, perhaps even wrong with the way it sat in Shane's chest and started to fester, but nevertheless, he hummed in response.

Marnie gestured to the carrier that was placed by the front door. "Take these chicks down to the farmer boy, will you?"

The didn't realize the farmer had stopped by earlier to purchase any animals - but then again, he did hide away in his room, laying on his back to stare up blankly at the ceiling for hours when he should have been doing his laundry. He was trying to convince himself to get up, but in the end, the low rumble in his stomach was the only thing that compelled him to move. He may have felt guilty if there wasn't a hollow that had gradually seared itself into the center of his chest the longer that he stared at the ceiling.

The walk up the road to the old farm was longer than he expected it to be. He'd never set foot on the farm before then, but he's heard whispers in town about the time when the old farmer was still there - trees, weeds, and debris filled the land, enough so that Abigail had taken a liking to adventuring through the wild mess. But when he stepped into the farm, he found that there were only a few trees that lined the outskirts and a sizable fenced-in patch of blueberry plants. Not a very impressive farm, but a farm nonetheless, and certainly a vast improvement from whatever had been there at the first day of spring.

The stairs creaked as he stepped up to the front door. He knocked on the door, and after a few agonizing moments, the farmer answered. He was still pulling on his flannel when he paused and, with a blush steadily creeping up his neck, asked numbly, "Uh . . . Shane?"

"Hey." Shane realized how blatantly he had been staring, lingering far too long on the way the farmer's shirt had clung to his chest, and shakily cleared his throat. He gestured awkwardly to the carrier. "The chicks you ordered."

"What? Oh!" The farmer let out a small laugh. "I almost forgot about them. Here, I'll show you where their coop is."

Shane followed after him, past the patch of blueberries and the wrecked remnants of what he assumed was once a greenhouse. They entered the coop, where Shane set the carrier down and released the latch. With some gentle coaxing, Shane managed to get them to hop out one after the other, and gave the final one an encouraging scratch to the head before he closed carrier and stood.

He turned and met the farmer's eye. His eyes were unfathomably soft, filled with something Shane could never put his finger on, and it carried to his voice as he asked quietly, "You're good with animals, aren't you?"

Shane's chest felt light, airy, and it took everything in him not to laugh. It was an odd feeling - something like joy, something like wonder, coalescing to create something sweet and perfect. He finally found the strength to respond, "I guess. I like chickens. A lot. You take care of them, you hear me?"

"I will! I promise." The farmer stepped closer, his voice dropping low as he asked, "If anything ever happens, though, can I come to you for advice?"

The way the question had sounded so close to a croon made Shane's head spin. There was nothing more he wanted at that exact moment than to lean forward, closer until they finally met, to feel the farmer's lips slotted against his until they were breathless. It was a different kind of yearning that manifested slowly over the weeks as they talked. He didn't recognize it until he was already in too deep.

It was vehement, it was overwhelming, it was everything, swelling in his chest until he couldn't take it anymore, yet in the end, when he took green eyes and a perfect smile into consideration, he realized that, like all other good things, he didn't deserve it.

"Of course. But I think they'll be just fine here."

The response came out colder than Shane intended. The farmer gave him a small smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, and the strong, vicious craving for a drink or two became too vehement to ignore.

"Thanks, Shane."

There was a different kind of pain then, one that stung and throbbed and left him wondering why, why, _why does it have to be the farmer, of all people?_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Note the rating change.

* * *

A long time ago, Shane promised he'd get better.

He didn't know exactly how, only that he had to. _Had_ to, not _wanted_ to, because there were very few things that he wanted, and sobriety wasn't one of them. He made a promise to everyone but himself to get better, to get his life together, to be okay in the end, but that was long ago. Too long. Too long since he's promised anyone anything. Too long since he's done anything for himself. Too long since he's had a drink.

He arrived at the saloon in record time. He didn't bother hiding at his corner like he usually did, instead staying at the bar to shamelessly ask Emily to refill his mug, three times before she eventually asked, "You sure you want to keep going, Shane?"

_Until I roll over and just fucking die, but we can't all get what we want, can we?_

Shane shrugged at the question. "I have to fulfill my duty and keep Gus' business going, don't I?"

Emily took his mug and, with another worried glance, left to fill it to the brim once more. It was some time after Emily returned with his drink when someone sat in the bar stool next to him. He didn't pay the person any mind until he heard the farmer ask, "Hey, Shane. Are - are you all right?"

It sounded distant, a mere whisper in the wind, yet close by and more personal than he wanted it to be. He looked over at the farmer, who had leaned in to ask the question, his countenance filled with the same kind of worry that Emily had shown.

"Fantastic. Fucking perfect, really," Shane deadpanned, guttural and sharp enough to make the farmer wince. "What do you want?"

"A drink and a game, usually, but you don't look too good." The farmer paused. He tentatively added, "Do you need me to walk you home?"

It was mildly frightening, how vehemently the anger had flared up in Shane's head. But even in his muddled, hazy mind, he couldn't let himself lash out. Not at the farmer. Not again. He downed the rest of his drink, throat numb to the burn long ago, and stood from his seat immediately after he clumsily slammed the mug back down onto the counter. His head spun and his stomach lurched at how quickly he stood, but he didn't care; without another look at the farmer, he murmured as always, "I'm going home."

"Shane. . . "

There was the urge to go back, to sit down and pour everything that had been racing through his mind. But then he wondered vaguely what he would say. How could he convey the thick block of ice that had nestled itself in the pit of his stomach? How could he ever hope to describe the tendrils of frigid regret that gnawed at him, forever engraved into his chest since the day he started drinking? It should be hot outside, courtesy of a late summer evening, but an unfathomable chill still wracked his spine. It was an exquisite torture that he could never describe, this howling thirst, this never-ending craving to forget it all and rot away, whether in his room or in a coffin, never to wake up again -

"Damn it, Shane!"

A rough hand grabbed his wrist, and he dimly realized that the farmer had followed. He yanked his wrist from the farmer's grip and snapped before he could stop himself, "_What?_"

The pain that blossomed in Shane's chest at the sight of the farmer's watery frown was terribly, horrendously ugly. He glanced off to the side, desperately looking for anything else to focus on, but his attention snapped forward as the farmer gripped his shoulders. His hands were firm and reassuring, pleasantly grounding and devastating all at once.

"Listen. Shane, just - just listen." The farmer's grip tightened, but it wasn't painful, not like the claws that had embedded themselves in Shane's chest. "Look. You really don't look too good, and I don't know if that's just the alcohol or not. And I - I know I'm being annoying. I know It's none of my business, and I don't expect you to tell me anything. But before you go, I want you to know that . . . it's okay."

There had never been such a genuine look on anyone's face before, never when regarding Shane, never when spouting the same advice that he's always heard. But there was something distinctly different about the farmer, something that made it so obvious, so blissfully open that each word that left his lips were _real_. As if he meant it. As if he _cared_.

The farmer stepped closer and spoke softly, delicately, "Whatever it is, it's okay. Or it will be. Just . . ." He cleared his throat. "get home safe tonight. Okay?"

Shane glanced down at the farmer's lips, then back up at his eyes, subtle yet so painfully obvious. He yearned desperately to lean in, to feel how soft those lips were, to discover if they were as gentle on his lips as his words were to his ears. His chest had never felt so warm, so full, so clear in what it wants in stark comparison to how nebulous his thoughts had become. All he could do was _want_ something that could never be his.

He found himself lurching forward, and the farmer welcomed him without a second thought. He buried his face into the farmer's shoulder, melted into the embrace, and an odd fluttering swelled in his stomach when the farmer gave him a strong, reassuring squeeze around the middle. There was still a distant craving, a prevalent thirst that he knew would never truly fade, but the worst of the thoughts had quieted, and until he made it home, he could only consider the farmer's request.

"Okay."

* * *

If it weren't for Jas, Shane would be at home, drinking or gaming or probably both, and the seasons would have changed without him even realizing it. Except she had begged him to come with her to the beach that night to catch the moonlight jellies as they migrated south, and even without Marnie's expectant gaze, he would've said yes. There were many things he'd agree to if it was Jas asking for them.

When they arrived at the beach, Jas immediately ran off to meet Vincent, and over time, Marnie had drifted away towards Lewis. Shane didn't bother moving from his spot on the pier, lit with sporadically placed lanterns as they waited patiently for the moonlight jellies to appear. He stared into the abyss below him, where shadows lurked and swayed with each movement of the ocean, but he knew that in perhaps another hour or so, it would be filled with wondrous bulbs of light and life. Each year was the exact same, and Shane wondered how the jellyfish knew where to go, when to go, and how carefree their lives may truly be if their only major worry each year was migration.

"What're you thinking about?"

Shane hadn't realized that the farmer arrived. He didn't take his eyes away from the water that swayed quietly beneath them when he answered, "Do you ever wonder what it'd be like to be a moonlight jelly?" Shane rubbed his hands together in an attempt to chase away the chill that had already started to set in. "They have all this control over their lives. They know everything they're supposed to know. Do you think it's liberating? To just swim and be free and be happy?"

The farmer gave him a thoughtful hum. "Well. Life in the ocean must have a lot less responsibilities than life on the farm. So yeah, I'd say that I'd love to switch places right about now."

Shane thought back to the time he had brought his chicks down to the old farm. The graveled walkway that seemed to be the beginnings of a full-fledged layout plan, the newly built fences that kept the blueberry plants in one place, the vast amount of land that had been cleared in preparation for the mass-production of autumn crops. It hadn't even been a year, and yet the farmer had already managed to get a foothold in the Valley and in their own little society seemingly with ease.

"How do you do it?"

The farmer tilted his head in question. "Do what?"

_How do you take control over your own life? How do you keep up with everything? How are you so calm when I'm always such a mess?_

"You left Zuzu City, right?" The farmer nodded. Shane looked over the horizon, far beyond the boundaries that kept him tied to this town, where he saw small, glimmering orbs deep in the waters. He asked quietly, "Do you ever think about how your life might've turned out if you just stayed?"

The farmer didn't respond. Shane looked away from the slowly approaching jellyfish and over to the farmer. He, too, had noticed the jellyfish, as did a few others. In the background, Lewis mentioned preparing the candle-boat to Willy. Shane considered the question forgotten - or, to torture himself, ignored - until the farmer finally responded, "I do think about it. A lot."

The farmer met Shane's eye with the same broad, confident smile that made Shane's stomach twist. "But that doesn't matter anymore. I'm . . . happier here. Happier than I think I'd ever be if I stayed in the city. I won't bullshit you and say it's been a walk in the park, though. The late nights, those shitty crows, Clint's outrageous upgrade prices - it's tough, but it's been worth it. If I didn't leave the city, I would've never met a lot of great people." Willy had begun to switch the lanterns off, but before the light died, Shane saw the fire that danced in the farmer's eyes. The farmer added, voice considerate and soft enough to make Shane's head spin, "I would've never met you."

It wasn't long after Lewis sent off the candle-boat when the moonlight jellies approached them. The night was black and desolate, but the vivid glimmer from the jellyfish chased off the shadows and sent their own light dancing delicately across the docks and along the coast. Shane never did care enough for any of the official Pelican Town events that were celebrated, but this was one that he didn't quite mind being dragged in to. It was a different kind of beauty, far more beautiful than the flourish of the Valley in the heart of summer, and he realized with a disappointing pity that summer was quickly drawing to a close.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Shane found himself asking the farmer.

He didn't expect the farmer to hear under the fascinated gasps and whispers from the other townsfolk, but he heard the farmer's breathy murmur, "Yeah."

Shane looked up at the farmer and realized with a tight skip in his heart that the farmer wasn't watching the migration. Illuminated only by the shimmer of the jellyfish, Shane saw the glitter in the farmer's eyes as they met his, the way his mouth had hung open just a bit, the way he had gradually edged closer to him as the moonlight jellies moved onward. Eyes blown wide, dark and all-encompassing in the night, gazed longingly at him, then to his lips, and for a fleeting moment, Shane couldn't breathe. He didn't know how long it was until leaned in ever so slightly, heart thumping wildly in his chest, his eyes sliding to a blissful close as the farmer tilted his head downwards and -

And then there was nothing.

It was cold and so painfully _desolate_ as the farmer backed away. Shane heard Lewis say something to the farmer, then the farmer's tell-tale laugh, and soon, Jas tugging at his sleeve, but he couldn't process any of it. He shouldn't have found it so devastating that whatever there was between them that moment, or anytime else, was as false he feared it to be. Of course the feelings aren't mutual. _They never were,_ he reminded himself cruelly later that night.

But Shane didn't blame the farmer; who could ever blame the farmer for not loving him? He couldn't even love himself.

* * *

Shane didn't remember the last time he had ventured so far into the forest. Then again, he didn't remember much of that evening, or even that morning, for that matter. All he could focus on now was the raindrops that danced across his skin, and gradually, he had become numb to it. Everything was numb now - numb from the cold, numb from the alcohol, numb from the pain. He didn't remember how he made it to the cliff, only that,he made it and proceeded to drink until he couldn't remember what he went there for. Or maybe until he fell off the edge when he couldn't think or stand anymore - whichever one came first.

The squelch of boots in the mud approaching him was nearly imperceptible over the rain. Shane opened his eyes, the black, ugly sky a mere smudge against a window, until he focused enough to realize that the raindrops had stopped. Above him, blurry yet still undeniable, was an umbrella shielding him from the rain - and, crouching next to him in the rain, the farmer.

"Shane." Shane couldn't recognize the farmer's eyes anymore - as deep as the abyss under the piers, as black as the sky, as wet as the clothes that clung uncomfortably to his skin. "Marnie got worried when it started to rain. Shane . . . are you. . . ?"

Those foreign eyes glanced elsewhere, and Shane knew exactly what he was looking at. He didn't know what was more shameful - the copious amount of cans that were scattered haphazardly around him or the fact that it took this long before he finally did it. Somewhere in his muddled mind, there was a voice that told him to run the farmer off, to snap at him and snarl all the vile things that came to mind. Maybe then, whatever it was in the farmer's eyes would fade, and there would be something that Shane could recognize again. Pity, anger, loathing - anything, anything but the raw sorrow that filled those enrapturing eyes.

He squeezed his own eyes shut. The churning in his stomach, the uncontrollable spinning in his head, and the fraying edges of his vision were all things he could handle. He would embrace it so he could slip into the abyss and halt the intrusive thoughts that poked at him. But the pounding ache in his chest, searing through his core while the rest of him remained dangerously numb, was one thing he couldn't handle. He couldn't open his eyes, couldn't look at the farmer anymore, couldn't bear to see the sorrow, the regret, the pain that those eyes never had the right to convey.

". . . I'm sorry." _I'm sorry for hurting you._ "I'm -" _I'm sorry for existing_. "I'm sorry. I'm - I'm pathetic. My life's pathetic. Everything -" _Everything I am, everything I've ever done, was a cruel, pathetic joke._ "my life, my health. Everything. It's falling apart. And I can't -"

A broken sob left him. He didn't know he was capable of it, but another left him, then another, and he felt the farmer's fingertips brush the hair on his forehead aside. The farmer's touch had always been grounding, a beacon or an anchor that he clung desperately to, but it was only devastating now. It only drew another sob from him, a pathetic sound, and he lay there, a cold and broken thing, wondering why he didn't jump before. If he hadn't waited, if he hadn't thought so much, then the farmer would have never seen this. He would've never seen something so awful, so vile, so_ broken._

"I cant' take control of my life. I can't - I can't do it. These cliffs . . ." The farmer's hand rest on his shoulder, and for a short, cruel moment, he pretended that it was an affectionate touch. The thought made the knot in his chest throb. "I can take control of my life. Here. These - these cliffs - I'm too anxious, too scared, too pathetic - but tell me. Tell me -"

Shane opened his eyes. The farmer was soaked already, almost as badly as he was, but he didn't dare move the umbrella. He wished he could just hate the farmer, hate him and everything else, hate the world, hate his job, hate the people he was surrounded by - but at the end of the day, the only person he could ever hate was himself. Sleep, drink, work, every single day in a viciously monotonous cycle presumably until death, and the only person he could credit that to was himself. It was always him, always his fault, always himself that he loathed with everything that was still there.

"Tell me why I shouldn't just -" He hiccuped, unsure of whether it was because of the alcohol or the tears. "Why I shouldn't . . . just roll off this cliff. . . . Take that control I've always - _always_ wanted . . ."

Distantly, he felt the farmer's grip tighten, then release after a brief moment. "Shane. . . ." The way his voice had dropped to a soothing whisper barely audible over the patter of rain against the umbrella made Shane's breath hitch. "Look. . . . It probably doesn't feel like you have control over anything, but this. . . . The decision here is your own, never anyone else's." The farmer withdrew his hand. In its place was a sharp, biting cold, but soon after, he could feel the warmth farmer's palm on his cheek where the tears had quickly begun to dry. "Just know that I'm here for you."

Somewhere in his hazy mind, Shane heard himself say, ". . . I think you should take me to the hospital now."

Shane didn't remember what the farmer said next, or if he even said anything. He blindly reached up, and somehow, perhaps in a dream, he was in the farmer's arms, and soon after, in the soft confines of a hospital bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Not long after Shane had been discharged from Harvey's clinic, he found himself staring at the number that Harvey had scrawled down on a sticky note for him.

"I know an amazing counselor in Zuzu City," Harvey had told him on his second day at his clinic, right before he was sent on his merry way home. "I want you to have her number. You don't have to call, but if you do, I promise you'll be in good hands."

Shane eventually realized that there was nothing more liberating than having options.

* * *

There had been vast amounts of improvements around the farm since Shane had last seen it in the middle of the summer. The graveled walkways were connected, one of which surrounded the large field of cranberry plants that the previous patch of blueberry plants paled in comparison to. The closer he stepped to the crops, he saw that the cranberries looked just a few days shy of a proper harvest, but at the same time, the wooden fencing that surrounded them had undeniably begun to decay. They didn't last very long - not with the summer thunderstorms, the autumn winds, and eventually, the several inches of snow that the Valley would no doubt be receiving in the coming winter.

Another breeze brushed past him, stronger this time, and with it came the sound of a gate creaking open. Shane stopped before he ascended to steps to the farmer's door when he saw the farmer emerge from the field with an empty watering can hanging loosely from his fingers. The farmer kicked the gate shut and, upon seeing Shane, he breathlessly greeted, "Oh - Shane. Hey."

The farmer set his watering can down near the dilapidated fence. Shane trailed his eyes down the farmer's body, focusing particularly on the sheen of sweat that made his shirt cling to his chest. It was far too alluring than Shane would've liked it to be. He glanced back upwards to the farmer's heavy eyes, and with a rise of heat in his cheeks, he realize how _obviously_ he had been staring, damn it all. As the farmer got closer, Shane could make out the ugly bags that weighed under his eyes. The sight was more alarming than he expected.

"You good?" Shane inquired, as casual as he could've been, but nothing could mask the concern that laced his words.

The farmer shrugged. "Yeah. I feel great." Shane quirked a brow in question, skepticism undoubtedly heavy on his countenance, and the farmer impatiently sighed, "Okay, fine. I'm a _little_ stressed out. That's all."

The finality in his tone left no room for further question. Shane bit his lip. "I'll be out of your hair soon. I just wanted . . . to apologize."

That day was still a blur to Shane, even after he had spent hours the other night, wondering hopelessly what he said, what he _did_. Some part of him wanted to know - why, exactly, he wasn't too sure of - and the other part of him wanted desperately to pretend it never happens. Perhaps he could have pretended it never happened that night, long after he dragged himself home and spent the next several miserable hours convulsing and regretting every mistake he's ever made, but he couldn't. _Wouldn't._ He knew the farmer was there. It was terribly nebulous, but the only thing he's sure of, besides that he had returned to the cliff _again_, was that the farmer had helped.

"What happened at the cliff. . . ." If there was one thing he despised, it was that the farmer's countenance had become terribly enigmatic. It made him more antsy than he'd like to admit. "I was a mess. An embarrassing mess. And I'm sorry for that."

The farmer's brow furrowed, some odd mixture of displeasure and, if Shane wanted to hate himself later for admitting it, disappointment. Then the farmer clapped a hand on his shoulder. There was an uncomfortable amount of dirt that had rubbed off on his sweater in the process, but he found, under the farmer's bold, emerald eyes, he didn't care.

"You don't gotta apologize for anything. I'm just glad you're still here."

Despite the reassurance, there was still an irrefutable flare of guilt that stirred in his stomach that he desperately wished he could ignore. ". . . That bad, huh? Well. Thanks, then. Really."

There was nothing more breathtaking than the farmer's bright smile. Nothing in the Valley, nothing on this farm, nothing that Shane could ever imagine - all of it melting away around him as the farmer hummed with a smooth, honeyed tone, "Anything for you, Shane." In an afterthought, he said, "Hey, you should come by more often. Say hello once in awhile. You know?"

The cranberries had yet to be watered, the fences were as delicate as the frayed ends of discarded rope, and all at once, Shane could only focus on the frigid tendrils of guilt. _You look busy_, he'd say. _I don't want to impose. I don't want to burden you._ Yet above all was the allure of the luminous yearning that was so beautifully evident in those smoldering eyes.

_It's an invitation, after all._ But it was one that he could possibly regret. _One that I didn't deserve to begin with._

Shane didn't trust himself to speak, only to dazedly nod at the suggestion.

* * *

The bus, recently prepared yet still so frighteningly dilapidated, screeched to a gradual stop. Shane stepped off the bus, down onto the cracked sidewalk of Pelican Town that paled in its pathetic comparison to the smooth, pristine sidewalks of Zuzu City. In his hand, he still clutched a small business card; behind it, written carefully in dark blue ink, was the date and time of his next appointment. The appointment had been surreal, almost ethereal, with the memory of smooth marble tiles and white, fluttering curtains forever ingrained in the back of his mind.

In her office, where he was seated in a plushy, floral armchair adjacent to her desk, she asked him, "What do you want to achieve from this?"

Needless to say, Shane wasn't prepared for any of it.

He also wasn't prepared for the options or the freedom. He doesn't know how long he sat there, answering her delicate questions, and to his surprise, her own genuine answers and anecdotes that felt natural, friendly, almost sickeningly so. By the end, after what he assumed was an orientation of sorts, he concluded that Harvey wasn't a _total_ liar. But most important of all, he had decided - had actually _chosen_ with his own free will, without any further push on her part - that he would return the following week.

A squirrel next to an oak tree darted up and out of sight as Shane passed by. To his right, some ways off, he can see the beginnings of a graveled path, and to his left, the cobblestone road to Pelican Town.

_Hey, you should come by more often. Say hello once in a while. You know?_

It had only been a few days. He supposed it would be all right. But when he entered the farm and saw the dismal state that the fences were still in, he started to have second thoughts. It didn't matter at that point, though - the farmer was placing a sack down into the shipping bin, bangs plastered to his forehead despite the cold breeze, the smooth stretch of muscle in his back and shoulders enough to make Shane oddly breathless with needy, shameless want.

The farmer looked up from where he knelt by the shipping bin. "Shane! Hey." He clapped the dirt from his hands before he stood. With a nervous little laugh, he said, "You should give me more of a warning."

Shane's eyes flicked downwards, lingering on his defined collarbones before trailing back up once more. _All or nothing, right?_ "You're fun to watch. A warning would ruin it."

The farmer's breath hitched sharply, and if Shane hadn't been paying so close attention, it might've gone unnoticed in the wind. There was a different kind of flush in his chest now, unrelated to the physical exertion, and Shane considered it a victory.

The farmer bit his lip. It hard partially been because of the interest, Shane knew, but there was something about the tension that still lingered on his shoulders that elicited a spark of doubt. Those eyes trailed elsewhere. "You know, I . . ."

_Rejection?_ No. Something keenly different. Shane asked cautiously, "You good?"

"Yeah. Well - yeah." The splutter did not pose a compelling argument, that much the farmer knew; he quickly added, "Things are getting busy. Winter coming, and all. And I feel like an ass for inviting you over when I knew -"

He cut himself off with a hiss. Shane followed where the farmer had looked over to, and there, he could see that the fencing around the cranberries had noticeably decayed further.

"The fences - they're gonna fall apart. They _are_ falling apart. And I haven't - I haven't picked the cranberries, I haven't even watered them, I have no time to -"

The rambling abruptly stopped when Shane gripped his shoulders. He gave him a reassuring squeeze, and Shane could see, like it had always been before, the way that the tension melted away like ice in the summertime heat. There wasn't much he had to offer, but he considered, in the brief second that it took for the farmer to calm a bit, just how difficult it is to repair a fence. Nothing too awful, he assumed.

"Hey." He almost didn't recognize his own voice - it was gentle, almost a mere croon when they were this close, and the farmer basked in it. "It's fine. I'll repair the fences for you."

"Wait, what? Hold on." The farmer, among the disbelief in his eyes, still gave him that golden, infatuating smile. "You'd - you'd do that for me? Really?"

"Yeah. It's not that hard. . . . I don't think."

Shane withdrew his hands. The smile dampened, no longer radiant, yet still so painfully stunning. The farmer started, "You don't have to. Shane, if this is about repaying me, or something stupid like that -"

"No. It's not about that."

Among all the things Shane could guilt himself for during those long nights that he'd lay awake, debt was never one of them. Not to the farmer, anyways. Perhaps for the first couple of days following the incident at the cliffs, Shane considered it - considered what he'd have to do to express gratitude, or if a simple _thank you_ would ever be enough - until the farmer had told him, with that perfect smile, under that all-encompassing stare, _Anything for you, Shane_.

So the farmer hurried off somewhere in a nearby shed and shortly returned with a toolbox. He directed Shane to the large pile of wood that he had stacked next to the house, then thanked him profusely, to which Shane brushed off with a timid wave of the hand, and off he went with another large sack to collect the remaining cranberries.

* * *

Shane realized two things.

One: Manual labor beyond unloading the trucks that arrived to JojaMart was arguably one of the hardest things to do. _Pathetic_, he called himself after the first few fences, until he started to get the hang of it, then he settled with just _unskilled_. Embarrassingly unskilled.

Two: He did a spectacularly awful job.

The sun had begun to set by the time Shane finished repairing - attempting to repair, rather - the fences. Not too long before that, the farmer finished watering the cranberry plants and disappeared into his home. Shane had begun to worry, wondering if perhaps the farmer was displeased with his work or if he was merely exhausted from the day's work. Then, when Shane discarded bits of wood among the stack and set the toolbox down at the foot of the stairs, the farmer emerged from his home with a glass in each hand.

"Lemonade," the farmer explained on Shane's tilt of the head. "It's the least I could do to thank you for repairing my fences."

They seated themselves on the porch swing. That was when Shane realized how terribly he had done; perhaps the fences would have been better off without him meddling, but with one nervous sideways glance at the farmer, he saw the fire that danced in the farmer's eyes and how luminous his face had gotten when regarding Shane's work. The sun had already begun to set, washing the farm in hues of orange and gold, bringing a frigid breeze along with it.

A cat eventually slunk up the steps and neared the porch swing. With a small chitter, it leapt up into the farmer's lap. Shane watched as the farmer scratched the cat's chin with a bubbly croon.

"I didn't know you had a pet."

The farmer shrugged. "I call him Alfred. He comes home after he tuckers himself out. Yoba knows what he does all day."

Shane stared at the empty glass that he cradled in his hands. Then his gaze shifted over to the farmer, over his smooth bicep and down to the cat that spilled over the farmer's forearm with a low, nearly imperceptible purr. Shane would bask in the silence if he could, the only silence he could think of that wasn't painfully deafening, but the sun was already set too low over the horizon. Orange had slowly melted away into the beginnings of a murky navy blue. He thought to returning home, then to the card in his pocket with the date of his next appointment.

Shane slid a hand into his pocket where, thankfully, the card remained cradled within the cotton. "By the way, I. . . ." He bit his lip. The farmer glanced over, but it wasn't until he eventually gave an inquisitive hum when Shane continued, "I decided to see that counselor that Harvey mentioned. And it's . . . something."

"Something?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. _Something_." He fidgeted in his seat, inexplicably antsy in the wake of the farmer's enigmatic stare. "I don't know. I've never been so - I don't know, open? Honest? And no one ever tells me that what I do is _my_ choice at the end of the day. It's different, but it's nice. Like someone's actually listening."

Vague whispers of memories from long ago drifted through the air; vicious reminders of high, ugly sobs across from him that asked, _what were you thinking? Don't you know how much you'd hurt me? Don't you know how selfish that is?_

Shane almost jumped at the farmer's sudden touch on his knee. The farmer gave him a soft smile, one that radiated a warmth that Shane had never known, and gave his knee an equally reassuring squeeze. He said with a pleasant little laugh, "I'm happy for you, Shane. Really. Might not feel like a very big step at all, but it's still a step in the right direction."

There was something so blissfully light and airy in Shane's chest and for one laborious moment, he couldn't breathe. Then he exhaled a rough, breathy laugh, like the tension he didn't know that was lingering on his shoulders had finally been lifted. The farmer didn't remove his hand, and after a brief consideration, Shane realized how close the farmer was and how, if he were to lean in, if he were to tilt his head just so, he could finally feel the farmer's lips on his own.

And oh, did he _crave; _he yearned terribly to feel the farmer, to bask in the warmth that radiated from those bold, emerald eyes, to wash away any fear and worry and regret with those damned lips. The farmer must've caught on, and he bit his lip, and the slight blush that emerged high on his cheekbones was almost encouragement enough for Shane to finally succumb to the slow collision that had been winding up from the very start. There were still small, intrusive whispers that deemed him unworthy, tried to convince him that he was unwanted and unsatisfactory, but with the farmer so close, lips parted and pupils blown wide, he could find the strength within himself to push the doubts aside. Just for a moment. Just for one blissful, mesmerizing moment -

Alfred yowled from where he had been trapped in the farmer's lap. The farmer withdrew his hand and leaned back to allow him enough room to jump down onto the porch and slink off to the side of the house. The farmer's brow furrowed, lip turned into an apologetic pout, and Shane damned himself for his impulsive urge to bite the farmer's protruding lower lip.

"It's getting late," the farmer pointed out.

Shane_ felt_ the way his heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach, and fuck, if he didn't wince at the sudden pain, it would have been a miracle. He stood from the porch swing. "Yeah. Thanks for the lemonade, by the way."

"Of course." There was a heavy pause that followed, as if the farmer was contemplating what else to say. When Shane made the movement to leave, the farmer abruptly blurted out, "You should come see me again. Sometime, I mean. Soon. Maybe. If - if you want."

The farmer seemed mortified at his own complete lack of eloquence, and oddly enough, it was a comfort. Whether the comfort was found in the fact that the farmer, too, was an absolute mess, or that there had been explicit interest shown in him visiting again, Shane didn't know. After some quiet consideration, he said, "I think I'd like that."

The farmer timidly laughed, and it hurt - genuinely, physically _hurt_ \- how badly Shane wanted to kiss the tension away.

* * *

**A/N:** plot twist: the cat got a name before the farmer lmao


	5. Chapter 5

No one ever said that the road to sobriety would be an easy one. But they never talked about just how difficult it would be, either.

Shane found that at some point, it wasn't the alcohol itself that was the main problem. It had only been a few weeks, and he remembered his therapist's calm, soothing words as he was transferred to a psychiatrist: _Nothing happens overnight; it'll take a while, maybe even months, and we'll both work with you._

How long was _a while?_

Shane found himself asking that one night, rolling the question on his tongue, and he didn't know how long he spent merely pondering the question. It started slowly that night, and he recognized it, the lethargy, the deafening chill in his chest, the eventual blank slate that his mind had become. That was until he eventually wandered back to questions he'd ask before, questions of why: Why had he moved in with Marnie? Why had he allowed himself to be chained to the cruelty of JojaCorp? Why weren't his efforts enough?

Then, as he curled tighter into himself and the dreadful cravings has begun to rear their ugly heads, he asked the age-old question: _Why am I like this?_

Time had crawled by terribly slowly, until his nails began picking idly at his knuckles, and eventually it became too laborious to breathe and far too difficult to think. All he could do was crave, to yearn and thirst for something that would dull the heat in his knuckles from the insistent picking and ease the breaths caught in his chest as he fought, with failing resolve, to take slow, calming breaths. Except they weren't calming, and they weren't helping, and they didn't calm the thoughts of why, why, _why am I like this?_

Nothing could help, he _knew_ nothing could help, and all he could do was _crave_.

Four, then five in the morning, the hours crawling by terribly slowly, and he wondered, with the first coherent thought he had beyond the abhorrent thirst and the blatant loathing, was why anyone would ever torture themselves like this, why any creature would ever, in all of their existence, torture themselves when the solution, the release, was right in front of them. Shane knew what still lay hidden in the back of Marnie's fridge. It sung to him, alluring in its sickening, burning melody, with an intensity that it didn't have in quite awhile.

He left his room, but with a resolve he didn't know he had, he walked past the kitchen and right out the front door. He didn't care that he slammed the door on the way out, that he didn't bother to mute his footsteps at he walked past Jas' door, only that he left. Abandoned that place, that small room, that tiny bed, where the walls would inevitably cave in and the blankets would only serve to suffocate him.

The only problem, by that point, was that there was no place for him to go. Would he walk to the cliffs, where the pit in his chest became all the more apparent? Would he go to the beach, where the frigid abyss beneath the piers only made him feel so terrifyingly small?

The only road he deemed acceptable to take was the one next to Marnie's ranch.

The next problem he encountered, once he was already at the farmer's doorstep, was this: It was five in the morning. On a Sunday. It was also nearly unbearably cold. _And_ it was an unannounced visit in a completely inappropriate time of day.

But the windows of the kitchen and the living room were on, nebulous and glowing brightly in the abyss of an autumn morning, and from inside, Shane could hear the clanking of dishes in the sink. So he coaxed himself to knock on the door, his hands thankfully too numb to feel the pain that would have blossomed from the raw skin of his knuckles. All noises stopped, the long pause following it suspicious and tentative, until the farmer finally opened the door. There were dark bags under his eyes, not unlike any that Shane has seen before, but the lethargic droop in them was replaced in wake of the concerned furrow of his brow.

The door creaked as it was thrown wide open. "Shane?"

"I'm not bothering you, am I?"

The answer seemed obvious, and alongside the throbbing headache, there was a sting in his chest. Of course he was a burden, a useless, pathetic _burden_ -

"No, you're good!" The small smile that accompanied the dismissal was replaced with a scowl as he looked at something off to the side. His voice was low, rough as he grumbled, "Alfred woke me up with the song of his people. Little bastard doesn't understand that I don't get to nap like he does." The farmer glanced down at his hands, then gasped, "Are you okay?"

Shane would smile back, offer his own bit of reassurance, but there was nothing that compelled him to smile as freely as the farmer did. He had begun to pick at his knuckles, he realized dimly, but it was too cold to feel, too numb to notice, as numb as his throat would be after a few shots, as numb as his mind would become the longer he drank into the night. He swallowed around the knot in his throat.

The picking became more insistent, more desperate as he explained slowly, "I've cut back on the beer. A lot. And that's not really the problem, it's just. . . I start thinking, and I get in too deep, and it's just - it's _hard_. And I just . . ."

He didn't allow himself to finish, but perhaps he didn't have to; the farmer's hands slid onto his own, prying them apart, the warmth in them igniting a fire against his cracked skin.

"Hey. Look at me." Shane almost couldn't pry his incredulous gaze away from their hands, but eventually, he followed the farmer's voice. The farmer squeezed his hands, filled them with a heat he didn't know he was missing, and said lowly, "It's okay. You're doing your best." He gently pulled Shane closer. "Come inside before you catch something. I'll make you some tea and we'll hope Alfred doesn't get too upset if you take his place on the couch. All right?"

Perhaps few months ago, he would've denied the kindness and brushed it off as pity. Cold, obligatory pity that made him hurt in a way that rendered him bitter and spiteful. There was nothing more shameful than admitting, whether to himself or another person, that he needed any form of help - but then again, this wasn't an admission. Not really, anyways. It was a silent call for help, somewhere in the abyss of the night, somewhere deep in the hole that he had fallen into, and within that hole that he didn't have the strength to crawl out from was the farmer.

Somehow, the farmer just _knew_. Knew what to say, knew what to do. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe it was as natural as the call that Shane felt to the farm the minute he stepped out of Marnie's front door, or as natural as it felt to lean in for a kiss, or as natural as it was to make his same daily trek to JojaMart without any real thought being put into the action. Maybe the farmer's smile wasn't as unctuous as he assumed it to be so long ago, and maybe the look in his eyes was as genuine as Shane hoped it to be. Maybe, just maybe, the farmer actually _cared._

But when Shane found himself on the couch, cradling a cup of tea in his hands while the farmer tried to coax a rather upset Alfred in the other room to join them on the couch for the morning news, he considered that it was far more definite than just a feeble maybe.

* * *

It took longer than Shane would've thought to get out of the habit of making a beeline to the saloon after work every day. Eventually, he found himself at the front steps of the saloon on a Friday afternoon, and from then on, only on Friday afternoons - _moderation_, he was frequently reminded, _only an occasional thing_. He discovered that the corner he had claimed for himself was still vacant, as if he had never cut his visits short, as if such a cold and secluded corner was marked for him and only him. Emily greeted him happily when he neared the bar, brought him the same drink he always ordered, and he settled into his corner, as if nothing had changed, as if he was going to follow through the same motions that he always did.

The fear subsided after his first sip. Unpleasant, of course, alcohol was never for the taste nor the burn of it, but he was antsy. Bored. That in itself, he assumed, was improvement enough. Another thing that hadn't changed besides the dull process that occurred between his arrival and his settlement at his corner was the farmer's eventual arrival. His stomach did a peculiar flip as the farmer approached him, his eyes bright with some odd, hopeful thing that danced within them.

The farmer had his own drink in his hand, still full to the brim, sweating in the homely warmth of the saloon. He greeted with a softness that seemed reserved only for Shane, "Hey, you. I haven't seen you in awhile."

Shane shrugged. "I only stop by on Fridays. My wallet and liver have never been happier."

"Yeah? I'm really happy for you, Shane," the farmer laughed. Shane had never seen a smile so gentle, so painfully _genuine_ when regarding him, eliciting an exquisite ache in his chest. "Think you're up for a game of pool or something?"

Shane glanced over to the pool table. Unnervingly enough, he caught Sam's eye. He wasn't quite sure what to make out of the scrutiny, whether it was curious or deprecating, or if it was perhaps a coincidence, given how he had nonchalantly resumed his game with Sebastian without another look back. He only joined them once, and despite the farmer's invitation, he couldn't help but feel that he would merely impose on their meet up. He briefly wondered how the farmer had managed to assimilate so easily into their social circle.

"Not really," Shane eventually sighed. He tried not to focus on the disheartened furrow in the farmer's brow. "But hey, I'm not gonna complain if you go."

"Honestly? Pool was never really my thing, either, but the guys like playing and I like being included in things, you know?" The farmer shifted from one foot to the other. Shane recognized the timid demeanor, how subtly he had become unsure of himself and what he wanted to say. The farmer confessed, "I'm just trying to find an excuse to hang out, I guess. I'm not a very interesting person otherwise."

The farmer looked to him again, his countenance oddly expectant, as it always is when he wants something. Shane hesitantly started, "You don't need an excuse for anything." He found himself involuntarily leaning closer to the undeniable allure of those expressive eyes and petulant pout. With a strength he didn't know he had, he stated, "Not sure if I've made it clear or not, but I happen to be _very_ interested in you."

There was an odd sort of intimacy that accompanied that corner, far away from the rest of the patrons, quiet and tranquil while the rest of the world moved on. Or perhaps it was just Shane, transfixed by the farmer's vivid blush, focusing only on the farmer while everything else receded until they didn't matter.

Low in his chest and imperceptible to anyone but Shane, the farmer asked, "How interested?"

Shane thought back to the night at the silo, the day at the cliffs, the evening they spent together on the porch swing, and how surreal they all miraculously felt.

"More interested than I have the right to be," he answered.

"The right to be?" The farmer repeated. He snorted at the admission, still so breathtakingly divine as he murmured, "I wouldn't say it's anyone's _right_. It just happens. Seriously, Shane. That night at the beach? I haven't stopped thinking about you since." There was a slight tremor in his voice now, one that Shane yearned to silence. "I haven't stopped wondering what might've happened if I didn't chicken out. I thought I might've ruined things between us, and I've been too damn scared to talk about it."

Shane realized how dry his mouth had gotten, standing this close to the farmer, so breathlessly enraptured by him in a way that made his mind blank and his heart race. There had been many times where he had yearned to lean in, claim those lips for his own, and kiss away any doubt that the farmer could have, but something about the moment made him untouchable, ethereal.

He found it in himself to say, "You didn't ruin anything."

"I see that _now_. I just - I haven't stopped wondering if - you know, if it wasn't just me, or if you even wanted me like I wanted you."

"Well, obviously, I'm a wreck. Because of you." Shane watched the farmer worry at his lower lip, and all he could do was _want_. "I just thought I was being too hopeful. And . . . I've also been too scared to talk about it."

The imploring beginnings of a whine were laced in the heat of the farmer's tone when he breathed, "Shane. . . ."

Shane didn't know which one of them leaned in first, but that didn't matter; soft lips against his, gentle and hesitant and _perfect_, and for the moment, nothing else mattered. A hand reached blindly and settled on his elbow, slid lower until Shane felt fingertips tugging at his own, and they laced their fingers loosely together. It was difficult not to chase after the farmer when he pulled away.

The farmer's breath ghosted over his lips, "You don't know how long . . ." He melted into another kiss, one that Shane answered eagerly to, more confident and determined than the last. They broke away, and this time the farmer stepped back, but he didn't withdraw his hand from where their fingers were still intertwined. "Are you free tonight? I can't promise beer, but I do have some really nice tea."

For the first time since the farmer arrived, Shane became aware of the drink in his hand, and for the first time in a long while, he genuinely considered leaving it behind.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** warning: some light NSFW is thrown in here, so watch out for that if it makes anyone here uncomfortable

* * *

It was a slow collision, starting from the moment Shane walked in through the farmer's front door, and Shane didn't recognize it until the farmer had already climbed into his lap. The farmer's kisses were soft on his lips, fingers tentative as they threaded through his hair, as if all the confidence had melted away the moment he settled in Shane's lap, but Shane found that it didn't matter; the intimacy was marvelous, yet borderline _overwhelming_, and his mind struggled to catch up as his hands gripped desperately at the farmer's hips.

He became keenly aware of the scratchy stubble across his cheeks that he hadn't been bothered to tend to and the ripped sweater he wore that probably hasn't even been washed yet. And with someone so perfect, so breathtakingly ethereal in his lap, he considered for a brief moment how undeserving he actually was. Then his mind wandered further into uncharted territory, wondering with a skip in his heartbeat just how far they'd go, and with that, how embarrassingly inexperienced Shane felt. When was the last time he was ever this intimate with anyone? When was the last time he even_ tried?_

The farmer must have noticed the falter in his grip and the tension that weighed on his shoulders; he came to a gradual stop, his hands untangling from Shane's hair to cup his face. "Hey." The farmer's hands were soft against Shane's skin. He ran his thumb across Shane's lip, rubbing soothing circles along his jawline as he murmured, "You're overthinking things, aren't you?"

"Sorry," Shane breathed. Something in his chest simultaneously tightened and swelled when the farmer rest their foreheads together. "I guess it just hasn't kicked in yet."

"What hasn't?"

Shane pulled back. This close, he could clearly see the freckles that peppered the farmer's skin, the smoldering line of forest green that circled his irises, and the beginnings of dark, lethargic bruises under his eyes. _How perfect you are,_ he yearned to say, watching as the farmer's fingers moved to idly tug at the collar of his shirt. His _stained_ shirt, with the hole in his breast pocket, and a logo across the chest that was far too faded for anyone to recognize. The scrutiny that he focused onto himself, his appearance, and his actions were enough to momentarily dampen the fluttering in his stomach.

"It's nothing," Shane finally answered.

The answer wasn't satisfactory, he knew, and he tried to chase away the frigid inadequacy he felt with another kiss. His actions were too hesitant, too rigid, and the farmer abruptly pulled away. The farmer held onto his shoulders, reassuringly squeezed them as he inquired with a gentle hum, "Should we slow down?"

Shane almost couldn't say yes. There was an indescribable jump in his heart at the consideration, perhaps something close to fear - fear that this would end, fear that the farmer would lose interest, fear that he'd ruin things again. Yet those lovely eyes stared intently at him, genuine and thoughtful and everything that made Shane's head spin, so he murmured weakly, "Yeah. . . ."

The corner of the farmer's lip tugged upwards into a warm, lopsided smile. "All right." He seemed reluctant to leave Shane's lap, but he did, settling down next to him. He offered with a breathy laugh, "I shouldn't have gotten so carried away. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. I guess I just got . . ." Shane bit his lip, eventually settling impatiently, "overwhelmed? Because you're -" _Too good for me? Too perfect for me to touch? Too amazing to give me the time of day, and yet here you are, treating me like I'm worth your time?_ "you know, you're _you_."

The farmer's brow furrowed, but he didn't inquire. Shane felt oddly exposed under those eyes, subjected to their scrutiny, but there wasn't any trace of cruelty or judgement in his gaze. There was definitely a degree of longing, one that Shane almost didn't believe could ever be directed towards him, but then the farmer reached out to him. His fingers slid over Shane's, gingerly and tentative as if asking permission, and Shane turned his hand and allowed their fingers to intertwine.

The farmer, his voice barely above a whisper, said, "Yeah, and you're you, and I wouldn't change anything about you for the world." He squeezed Shane's hand, delicately as if it were something that could break, lovingly as if it meant something to him. "I almost couldn't believe it. Hell, I guess it hasn't really kicked in for me either. The flirting, the late nights together, the saloon - this entire time, I thought I was either too optimistic or too stupid, but here we are." A bubbly laugh suddenly erupted in his chest. He repeated wondrously, "But here we are! It's a thing._ We're_ a thing. And I wouldn't give this up for anything."

Shane didn't believe it at first. Like all other good things, he found himself contemplating - _brooding_, rather - just how truthful it was, how genuine the farmer could possibly be. But this time, after the farmer had offered him another cup of sweet smelling tea and asked what his favorite movie was, there was a unique sort of self-awareness that accompanied the thoughts; who was he to determine what the farmer does or doesn't find appealing in him? And further yet, who was he to pin his own imperfections and insecurities as a point of abhorrent disgust for everyone beyond himself, including the farmer?

The farmer, whose hand felt warm and right when it held his, who had told him many times that he would be there and had never once looked back on his promise. It was almost too unreal, ethereal in his mind, until the farmer squeezed his hand and grounded him from the heavens.

Shane then noticed that Alfred had perched himself on the arm of the couch, staring down at the farmer as if deep in contemplation, then hopped down into his lap. The farmer leaned back to allow him room on his lap, but surprisingly enough, Alfred stepped right over him, past their intertwined hands, and placed an expectant paw on Shane's thigh.

"Traitor," the farmer hissed, but there was more amusement than reproach in his tone.

Shane, unsure of what to do, tensed as Alfred climbed into his lap. A few moments passed before Alfred, staring up through large, yellow eyes, let out a deliberately loud and persistent meow.

The farmer scolded with a small snort, "You have to pet him."

Shane shifted uncomfortably under Alfred's glare. "I have to. . . ?"

"You_ have_ to. It's the law," the farmer confirmed sternly. "Especially because you're in his spot."

Much later, once their mugs were left forgotten on the coffee table and Alfred had nestled perfectly in Shane's arm, the farmer fell asleep. It was tentative, at first, and perhaps he didn't mean to, but he rest his head on Shane's shoulder until he eventually drifted off. As their second movie of the night came to a close, Shane realized with a delicate, exquisite flutter in his chest that he could get used to this.

* * *

On Shane's third time walking home long after the sun had set, he saw Marnie in the kitchen. At the ring of a bell at her front door, she immediately stood, the chair scraping loudly behind her.

"You've been out late a lot, and -" Marnie gave him a once over and took a deep, shuddering breath, as if to calm herself. "and - Shane. You look -" she paused. "you look okay."

Shane took an embarrassingly long time to register the confusion that filled Marnie's words. The only other times he had been out so late were nights that he wasn't quite sure he could've pulled through, nights that were forgotten under the haze of alcohol and self loathing, and he'd been blind to the affects of it.

"I was with the farmer," Shane explained quietly. Instead of the burning hatred that tore at his gut when regarding himself, there was a delicate flutter, one that felt so right, absolutely perfect. "I'm sorry for not warning you."

Marnie flashed him a bright, knowing smile, and in the following nights to come, the house was silent when he tiptoed back into his own room.

* * *

After a long while, Shane finally mustered the courage to stay the night.

It was almost frightening, turning over in sheets far too soft than he cared enough to have, into the arms of the farmer, who mumbled incoherently in response to the sudden movement. Shane tensed at the warmth and the closeness, suddenly too foreign in his sleep-addled brain, and somewhere in the back of his mind, there was still the persistent question of whether he truly did deserve this. But then the farmer nuzzled closer, his chin resting on the crown of Shane's head, and he murmured after a long sigh, "Hey."

Over his shoulder were the vague outlines of furniture concealed in the strong midnight blue of the Valley, and on the nightstand, a clock specified that he had just a few minutes before 5 AM hit. The farmer's slow, even breathing was an odd comfort, and under Shane's ear, a strong, burning heartbeat - a heart that was his, and a heartbeat that only he could listen to so early in the morning. _Even if I don't deserve it, he does,_ Shane slowly came to realize, because he could never take away something that made the farmer happy only to punish himself.

He contemplated calling off so he could drown in a comfort he'd never known, his 6 AM shift be damned - _because fuck JojaCorp and fuck their sick day policy,_ Shane thought bitterly - but he knew deep down that jeopardizing his position at JojaMart would only upset the farmer.

Shane allowed himself to bury his face into the crook of the farmer's neck, responding lowly, "Hey." The farmer's hand came up to clumsily rub at his lower back. There was a twinge in his heart when he whispered, "I have work soon."

A few lazy seconds passed before the farmer answered with a gravelly murmur, "No."

Shane huffed softly, "No?"

The farmer gave him a small squeeze and petulantly griped, "No."

Shane eventually still had to slip quietly out of bed, but he made it up to the farmer later that day with a new brand of tea that Joja imported.

* * *

The farmer's lips were soft against his own. They were sweet, delicate, more than Shane thought he could ever hope for. Shane's head would spin when the farmer pulled away with a small smile laden with an intimacy that was reserved only for him. Something danced in those expressive eyes of his, Shane could see it, something that burned brightly and coalesced with the thump of his heart against his chest to form an odd feeling. It was sweet, gentle, perfect - everything that the farmer was, unique to their relationship, hidden far away from prying eyes and vile thoughts.

While the snow outside fell heavily onto cobblestone roads and tiled roofs, the saloon remained warm and shielded its inhabitants from the frigid heart of winter. Shane eventually drowned out the distant murmur of conversation and upbeat music, the clink of glass against glass, the dull tapping of shoes against the wood that bounced to the beat leaving the jukebox. Just outside the storage room, a game of pool was getting rather rowdy, probably a disagreement amongst the trio that Shane and the farmer eventually snuck away from. All of it fell on deaf ears, after Sam teased them, long after Shane turned down a drink for the first time.

Hidden away in the back room, surrounded by kegs and crates, there was only the two of them, mouths slotted messily together, hands wandering and groping freely with the knowledge that no one could hear them this far away from the typical events of the saloon.

There was a degree of urgency in the farmers insistent tugging on his hair. Their kisses were harder and more desperate than they ever had been, filled with the tension that built from the moment they met at the saloon, and perhaps the jump in intimacy should've been as overwhelming as it had been at the end of autumn. But Shane recognized the fondness in the farmer's eyes when they pulled away for air. The smile he received, the same delicate smile that the farmer had only for him, comforted him more than he realized he needed.

A breathless chuckle left the farmer's kiss-bruised lips, and he pressed their foreheads together, bumped their noses like he would late into the night when he assumed Shane was already asleep. "You okay?" he asked, sweet and patient as if there wasn't a fervent ache where their hips met and ground eagerly together just a few moments before.

Shane almost said it. He almost named the undeniable fire that he saw in the farmer's eyes and recognized in his own heart, whispered the words that he cradled in his soul, but he settled with a dazed nod.

He pulled the farmer down by the collar and breathed, "More than okay."

There was teeth in the kiss now, biting down and tugging at Shane's lower lip until he resumed the rough, deliberate grinding against the farmer. His knee slipped between the farmer's thighs, a delicious moan melting into the kiss, and Shane pulled away to watch. It was ethereal, the way the farmer bit his lip, the way he shamelessly bucked his hips, their heated breaths coalescing in a hazy urgency until they eventually found that sweet release together.

* * *

Shane left early to help with the Festival of Ice, as he usually did whenever there was an event that required Marnie's contribution in one way or another. He almost hated it, with the cold that seeped into his bones through his worn jacket and the water that had somehow seeped into his mittens at some point while he helped move the statues and clear the snow that blocked the road. Every complaint he could have possibly had melted away much later in the day after the farmer had miraculously won the fishing contest by a hair.

The farmer hugged him with a giddy laugh and, with a quick kiss to his cheek, placed the sailor's cap on Shane's head before running off. Shane didn't have the heart to take it off, even after Marnie teased him, even after the day had drawn to a slow close and the rest of Pelican Town were on their way home. The sun had already set over the horizon, the sky glowing faintly of a navy blue, the clouds above murky and ominous. The farmer approached him, his own gloves soaking wet, his cheeks flushed red and lips cracked, and Shane immediately followed him back to the farm.

It had become a routine at this point - going about their lives until they inevitably found their way back to the farmer's home. Shane almost felt guilty for it when he reflected, but the farmer seemed more than happy with the arrangement. Their clothes were discarded in the hamper to wash some other time, completely forgotten after they had settled on the couch. There was only light touches at first, fleeting and playful, until the farmer was seated in Shane's lap again, kissing him with the confidence that he lacked so long ago.

Somehow, they managed to make it to the farmer's bed. There was the same urgency as there was at the night of the saloon, but they weren't hindered by the looming threat of being caught by Gus should he need something from the back room. It was only the two of them, together where they could finally let go, and it was more liberating than Shane ever remembered it being. The motions felt natural, perfect and _right_ in how it pounded in Shane's chest and burned in his lower abdomen.

The farmer's legs hooked around Shane's waist, held him closer as their hips collided, faster until he was gasping broken pleads against Shane's lips. Shane tightened his grip where he held the farmer's hands, planted on either side of his head for leverage, and the farmer squeezed back. He broke the kiss, the saliva that still clung between them filthy in a way that made him groan and thrust harder.

"Shane," the farmer whined, beautiful and stunning and everything perfect that made Shane's heart swell. "Fuck, _Shane_ -"

He came with a tremulous cry, and Shane followed shortly after. He fell forward, face buried into the crook of the farmer's neck, eventually releasing the vice-like grip on the farmer's hands once he realized how desperately he had been clinging on. Time moved slowly afterwards, with the farmer dazedly murmuring sweet nothings while Shane pressed tentative, almost apologetic kisses on the galaxies that spread across the farmer's neck and collarbones.

There was a unique sort of softness on the farmer's face. Still seated deep inside the the farmer, cradled in a warmth he never knew he would be blessed with, Shane almost said it. He almost couldn't hold it in when the farmer weaved their fingers together and murmured lazily, "I could lay here forever with you."

The corners of Shane's lips tugged up into a small, genuine smile that he couldn't hide. "Yeah?" At the farmer's sleepy hum, he pointed out, "We still have to get cleaned up, you know."

The farmer farmer let out a needy noise of disapproval when Shane finally pushed himself up and off to the side. He sighed, "Yeah, I _know,_ and I'm going to be upset about it."

The shower they shared later proved that the farmer, in fact, was not as upset as he claimed he would be.

* * *

The sky outside was still dim and bleak, even when the clock had slowly ticked its way into 8 AM. Another storm was coming, no doubt, and Shane knew that he would have to go out to check on the chickens at some point before the snow started to fall. For now, however, he remained in bed. There was no longer the second-long panic that accompanied waking up in a bed that wasn't his own, and while he was always the first to wake up, there was no lethargy that weighed him down for the rest of the morning.

He briefly wondered when he had gotten so comfortable in the farmer's home. _Their home_, perhaps, with how often he stayed over, and how he found himself walking down the cobblestone path to the farm rather than to Marnie's ranch after his shifts at JojaMart. The farmer shifted in his arms, mumbled something under his breath, and Shane pressed soft kisses to his forehead and to the tip of his nose until he eventually opened his eyes.

The smile on the farmer's lips was lopsided and lazy, yet still so breathtaking when he murmured, "Hey, you."

Shane didn't remember the last time he woke up alone. He didn't remember the last time he went searching for the aspirin, or when he spent a Thursday evening at the saloon instead of his therapist's office at Zuzu City, or when he barely managed to stumble home after a rough night downing drinks until his throat was numb and his mind was blank. He didn't remember when he didn't wake up with the farmer nuzzled into his chest or when he didn't have to carefully watch where he stepped in case Alfred was lounging nearby on his midnight trips to the restroom. He didn't remember the last time someone told him that it would get better, or how he'd spit on their attempts at comforting him by claiming that it was bullshit.

If only he'd known. If only.

But all that mattered now was the present - _the now, not the before,_ as the farmer would tell him on those rare nights when he needed it - where the farmer had reached up to clumsily thread his fingers in Shane's hair. He leaned in and kissed him, as gentle and delicate as Shane needed, as sweet and loving as he wanted, lips moving together in perfect harmony until the farmer broke the kiss with a pleased hum.

The farmer was a blessing Shane thought only existed in love songs and flowery poems. He was a blessing that encouraged the good things in him, spurred the motivation he always needed; while love was by no means a cure-all, it did wonders to help him save himself.

Shane brushed the farmer's hair out of his face. With his heart full to bursting and his mind fuzzy and light, he whispered, "I love you."

It was nearly imperceptible, even between them in the late Sunday morning, a soft admission that Shane had taken so long to say. Yet immediately after, with a gentle laugh, the farmer mumbled sweetly, "I love you, too."

Their lazy morning bled into a calm afternoon as they talked about everything and nothing without a care in the world for anything beyond each other.

* * *

**A/N:** Y'all know I'm a sucker for sappy endings.

Thanks for reading :)


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